ir, once more.
Where is the Joy, the Peace, and Quiet flown,
All had, when first you did ascend the Throne;
Now murmuring discontents assault our Ears,
And loud Complaints of jealousies, and fears:
Bad instruments help to blow up this Fire,
And with ill minds, their own worse Arts admire,
Whilst, by their means, you think your Friends your Foes,
For your best friends, your Enemies suppose;
Suspect your Loyal Subjects, and believe
The _Sanhedrim_ would you of Rights bereive.
Your people, who do love your gentle Sway,
And willingly their God, and you obey,
Who for Religion ever zealous were,
For that, for you, and for themselves do fear.
Clear as the Sun, by sad effects they find,
A _Baalite_ to succeed you is design'd:
Sir, they would not dispute with you, his right,
But they can n're indure a _Baalite_:
Tho whilst you live, they are secure and blest,
Yet are they with a thousand fears opprest,
Think your Life still in danger of the Plot,
Which now is laugh'd at, and almost forgot.
They see the _Baalites_ Hellish Plot run down,
And on the _Pharisees_ a false one thrown;
Your zealous faithful _Jews_ all Rebels made,
Their ruine hatch'd, you, and themselves betray'd.
Oh! Sir, before things to extreams do run,
Remember, at the least, you have a Son,
Let the _Sanhedrim_ with your wisdom joyn,
To keep unbroken still the Royal line;
And to secure our fears, that after you,
None shall succeed but a believing _Jew_.
Sir, this is all your Loyal Subjects Crave,
On you, as on a God, they cry to save.
Kings are like Gods on Earth, when they redress,
Their peoples Griefs, and save them in distress.
With loads of careful thoughts, the King opprest,
And long revolving in his Royal Breast,
Th' event of Things-----at last he silence broke,
And, with an awful Majesty, he spoke.
I've long in Peace _Judeas_ Scepter swaid,
None can Complain, I Justice have delay'd:
My Clemency, and Mercy has been shown,
Blood, and Revenge did ne'r pollute my Throne;
I and my People happy, kindly strove,
Which should exceed, my Mercy or their Love:
Who, till of late, more ready were to give
Supplies to me, than I was to receive.
Oh! happy days, and oh! unhappy change;
That makes my _Sanhedrims_, and my people strange,
And now, when I am in the Throne grown old,
With grief I see my Subjects Love prove cold.
They fear not my known Mercy to offend,
And with my awful Justice dare contend;
But yet their Crimes my mercy shan't asswage,
I'm ready